Keep Me, Kept Me
by BlueJayJazz
Summary: Written for Sherlock BBC Kink Meme prompt Sherlock is John's slave, given to him when both were just children. Together they grow up and grow closer, but naturally there are many obstacles, as Master and Slave. Slash. Dark. Many Warnings Inside.
1. Sunshine and Simple Times

**Keep Me, Kept Me **

**(Warnings for whole story; Slavery, non-con [not between Sherlock and John], child abuse references, child rape references, suicide attempt)  
**

_Chapter 1 Sunshine and Simple Times_

July the eighteenth, the weather seemed to be giving Johnny H. Watson a special birthday present of it's own with the most gorgeous cloudless skies, radiant sunshine and air that smelt of summer. Johnny could taste the summer at the back of his mouth; like lemon hard candy and dewdrops. All the colours around him appeared pleasantly saturated, tinted with yellow sunlight.

It was easily the loveliest day the Watson family had seen all year, and it was all Johnny's.

Little Johnny didn't even mind so much that papa was busy at the office for a good part of his fifth birthday, or that Harriet kept stealing his birthday balloon and parading it around the house too high for Johnny to reach, for he was content.

Of course, content, _and_ excited. Why, because birthdays are only good two things feeling too young or too old, and _presents_. And as a five year old, presents are generally all he cared about.

He was mildly disappointed though, when his birthday supper rolled around and papa was still gone. Mummy said he was just busy, and would definitely be here before it was present time. "Don't worry Love." She said. So Johnny didn't worry, and allowed himself to enjoy his pizza and fuzzy, poppy soda, and be happy.

Johnny felt free.

-o0o-

To say the least, the little boy in the doorway was strange. Johnny didn't know what to think about him, honestly, except that he reminded him of their neighbor's cat. Sharp feline eyes and pale snowy skin contrasted with his charcoal colored hair. He was a bit taller than Johnny, despite his mum saying the new boy was a little younger than he. The cat-looking boy held an air of fear, one that made Johnny somewhat uneasy. What was he so scared of? Should Johnny be scared too?

"You're birthday present, Johnny!" His papa's voice was too loud, Johnny knew. He was scaring the scared boy.

But wait… his birthday present? This boy was his? Johnny never owned something quite as special and important as a little boy. His excitement perked up again.

"It's about four years old Johnny, and it now belongs to you. Like a pet."

Like a pet? Like his neighbor's cat? Johnny felt a buzz of happiness in his gut. He'd always wanted a pet. He didn't like mummy calling his pet an 'it' though. Pet's shouldn't be called 'it'. Pet's had feelings too, especially person-pet's, he assumed.

"What will you name it Johnny?"

Didn't this little boy already have a name? Johnny had a name; he was born with a name!

_He's a pet; pets don't always come with names,_ he realized.

"I don't know." Johnny replied to his mummy, he looked over to his pet. "Hi pet!"

His pet flinched, eyes bright with terror. Had Johnny scared him? He hoped not! He wanted his pet to be his bestest friend, which means he wanted his pet to also trust him. You don't trust things you fear, Johnny knew that much.

Papa swatted his pet with the palm of his hand. "Respond when spoken to! You belong to him, slave!"

"Don't hurt him papa! He's just nervous." Johnny begged, reaching out to grasp his pet's hand. Slave? What was slave? Was that another word for pet?

"He needs discipline, like any pet Johnny." Mummy said softly, but ruffled the pet's hair kindly. "Now, why don't you take it to your room and think of a name."

Johnny nodded and pulled on his pet's hand, "C'mon! Let's go!" Johnny was so pleased! He and his pet would become bestest friends, he just knew it!

Once in his room, Johnny studied his new pet carefully, trying to think of a name.

The boy seemed to be trembling slightly, eyes to the floor. He was skinnier than Johnny, his bones pushing at his skin like it was too tight, reminding Johnny of the time he stretched a plastic bag over his hand. Was his pet not eating enough? Johnny's friend Jimmy fed his goldfish too much once and it died. Maybe the same could be the opposite for all pets.

"Well pet, what do you want to be called?" Johnny asked, pulling him to his bed. His pet seemed to shake even more, eyes becoming wide and frightened. "What's wrong?"

His pet shook his head, and sat on the floor, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Pet, I won't hurt you. We're gonna be friends!" Johnny frowned. How did he make his pet stop being scared? When Johnny got scared of the dark, his mummy always came over and gave him a big hug and told him a bedtime story.

Johnny reached over and embraced his new friend, being careful not to spook him.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's ok. Whatever you're scared of, you don't need to be." His pet cringed in his arms, but soon relaxed a bit. "Are you ok now, pet?

"Don't call me that." His pet whispered, then flinched. "Please." He added, as if in afterthought.

"Than help me think of a name for you! Than I can call you it!" Johnny pouted, and sat down beside him. Though secretly, he was please his pet was finally talking to him.

Suddenly a thought hit him. "Where's your mummy and papa?" His pet was a little boy just like Johnny, even though he was a pet and Johnny was not. Pets have parents too. His grand-pappy had a cat who had a litter of kittens, even though he gave all the babies away.

His pet shook his head as though that was an answer.

"What did they call you?"

Another head shake.

Johnny sighed in frustration. "What did they call you at the pound?"

"…Whore." Came the quiet reply.

Johnny frowned. He didn't know if that was a name or not, it didn't sound like any name he'd ever heard of. And even if it was a name, he didn't like it. "Well, I'll call you Sherlock. 'Cuz you remind me of Mrs. Lucy's cat, and his name is Sherlock."

Sherlock perked up, glancing at Johnny. But he didn't say anything, just quirked his lips a bit, and that was good enough for Johnny.

-o0o-

It was months and months before Sherlock said anything more, much to Johnny's papa's anger.

Whenever papa lashed out at Sherlock, Johnny would cry and whine until papa stopped. Johnny hated it when other hurt his pet, Sherlock was his! He had developed a sort of possessiveness over his pet like he had over many of his toys.

He and Sherlock had been playing outside by the creek when his pet spoke again, soft voice quiet and shaky from disuse.

"Do you like me, master?" Sherlock had whispered, sitting next to Johnny while they inspected the mud for buggies.

Johnny glanced over at Sherlock, surprised at his voice. "Of course I do Sherlock! I love you!"

Sherlock smiled a little, and helped his master collect a tin of worms to scare Harriet with. He was happy.

-o0o-

When Johnny went to school, Sherlock would hug him at the door and beg him to come home soon. Johnny always promised he would, and made his papa swear to be nice to Sherlock while he was gone. He still saw bruises on his pet's face sometimes though, but knew that all pets need disciplining, so he didn't put up as much of a fuss anymore.

Sherlock would wait for Johnny at the door every afternoon when he got home, and would smile broadly and hug him. Johnny loved that his pet cared about him so much, and would hug him back every time.

The two would have wondrous adventures together, solving crimes about missing dollies and tramping about in the woods outside looking for clues. Harry would sometimes play too, pretending to be the villain they had to chase down.

They'd explore the creek, and wade in with rolled up pant legs. Frog catching and tad pole collecting, rock finding and splash fights.

The only thing he hated was when Jimmy, his school best friend, came over to play and would make fun of his pet.

Jimmy knew a lot more about slaves than Johnny did, because Jimmy's papa worked at an office that dealt with slave transactions. Johnny hated when Jimmy flaunted his knowledge and said things about Sherlock that Johnny didn't understand, and didn't want to, but knew weren't nice.

Johnny realized one day that there was a lot about Sherlock that he didn't know, and about slaves in general.

-o0o-

When he was ten, John gave his first order to Sherlock.

His pet had been whining all afternoon. Sherlock complained that John didn't spend any time with him anymore, and that he was always out playing with his school friends.

But John had other friends too, and surely it was more important to play with real children than pets?

"Sherlock, go away. Jim's coming over and we're going to the park!" John snapped, pushing his pet away a little more roughly than he usually would.

"But can't I come with? It's so boring here, and your father's in a bad mood…" Sherlock begged, and John felt a little guilty. Sherlock did spent so much time alone, and his father _could_ be cruel to his pet when the mood struck…

But the doorbell rang, and John's resolve strengthened.

"No, leave me alone. Jim's at the door and I don't have time."

"John…" Sherlock whined, small hand latched on John's sleeve.

"That's master to you, Sherlock." John finally snapped. "And I order you to go away!"

Surprisingly, Sherlock immediately backed down and bowed his head a bit, looking to the floor. "Sorry." He whispered, voice quiet and hoarse. And then just… walked away.

John gazed after him in surprise. Sherlock rarely gave up that easily, and was always quick to voice his opinion (much to his papa's dislike). But John didn't have enough time to worry, because Jim was still at the door.

-o0o-

From then on Sherlock was much quicker to take orders, and John found himself giving them out more often. Sherlock stopped talking so much, and gave John more space. Admittedly John found himself missing his friends presence, missed the adventures, missed the afternoons where he felt free and loved…

But it was for the best. John had so much homework to do, and now had a lot of other friends, and just didn't have time to pay attention to his pet.

When John was twelve, he got into a fight with a couple seventh graders and lost quite badly. His jaw was quite bruised and his eye was swollen shut, but he was proud that he'd stood up for himself and walked home with a spring in his step, despite his sore ankle.

When he opened the door though, Sherlock jumped up in surprise and rushed towards him.

"Master! What happened? Are you ok? Did someone hurt you?" Sherlock grasped John's sleeve and pulled him to the kitchen. The fear and panic in his pet's eyes made John frown.

"Sherlock I'm fine. Just got in a tussle with some guys at school. Stop worrying!" But he let Sherlock wipe at his bruised cheek with a damp cloth nonetheless, slightly pleased at the fussing.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Sherlock asked, pressing a plaster to the cut on John's nose.

"Naw, just a few bruises. I'll be fine Sherlock." John was reminded of all the times John had done this same thing with Sherlock when his papa disciplined his pet. He found himself smiling at the reversal of roles.

"I don't want you to be hurt Master." His pet whispered, wringing out the cloth.

"Sherlock, stop calling me Master. You can call me John." John finally choked out, hating the sadness radiating off of his pet. He had been neglecting Sherlock, hadn't he. He read somewhere that dogs need to be played with and exercised to be kept happy, and John had been drifting away from his pet for years.

"You seemed adamant about it before." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"We were younger and you were really disobedient." John replied, ignoring the flinch at the word 'disobedient'.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock replied honestly, turning to face his master, his friend.

"How about we go to the park, Sherlock?" John smiled, grasping his hand. "We can go feed the ducks."

His pet smiled. "Sure, John."

-o0o-

John brought his first girlfriend home when he was sixteen, to say the least it didn't go over well.

Mary was a lovely girl, soft green eyes and curly brunette hair she preferred to pull up in a bun. John loved the cute little dresses she wore, and the way she giggled when John's hands slipped a little farther than they should've.

John didn't love her though, he knew he was too young and they'd been dating for too short a time to be in love with her, but he really liked her and hoped things would work out.

Sherlock didn't like her.

It was a Friday afternoon when John drove Mary from school to his house, hoping Sherlock would be too busy cleaning up to notice them. Of course, his prayers were not heeded and the second they walked in, Sherlock perked up from where he'd been dusting the tv.

"Joh- er, master. Good afternoon." Sherlock said quietly. It was a deal between them that while he could address John by whatever he wanted in private, social conventions had to be upheld around others.

"Afternoon. Sherlock, this is Mary." John nodded towards his girlfriend.

"Oh, John I didn't know you had a slave." Mary frowned. "Do you really need to introduce me?"

"Ah, er, I guess not. It's just…" John didn't know what to say. It felt wrong to treat Sherlock the way Mary seemed to want him to treat him. Like he didn't matter.

"I'll leave you to it Master. I'll just clean up around here a bit, if that's ok with you and the lady." Sherlock bowed a bit, stiffly.

"It's fine." John waved him off, feeling a strange hollowness inside. He hated this acting. Was this how most slaves were to be treated? Like… slaves?

The realization was a great pang to his gut, but he forced himself to turn his attention to Mary. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes please, thank you." Mary smiled.

John turned to the kitchen, but Mary stopped him. "Um… isn't that a job for your slave?"

"Oh, well he's busy with the dusting so…" John blushed. "Ahem. Sherlock? Could you get Mary and I a drink?"

"…of course _Master_." Sherlock used just enough sarcasm that only John could detect it. "And what would the miss like?"

"A water would be fine." Mary replied, smiling back to John. "How about you show me your bedroom?"

Sherlock bristled, and under his breath muttered, "How about you tell him about you're good friend Mike?"

Mary jumped in surprise, and glared over at Sherlock. "How dare you speak to me like that?"

"How dare you be unfaithful to your boyfriend?" Sherlock countered, sneering. "I can tell by your necklace, new, but pricey. From the rest of your wardrobe I'd say you're not that well of money-wise, and John would never spend that much on jewelry for a girl. So a present, but not from John. You've got the sent of men's body spray on you, John doesn't wear that particular sent so obviously you've been close to another. That," He paused, "and when I was at Tesco's the other day buying groceries I saw you, ma'am, and Mike Anderson pawing at each other in the parking lot so either you most very fast, or are currently cheating on my Master here."

The sound of the slap seemed to echo throughout the living room, and Sherlock shrunk back, the force of Mary's hit leaving blood dribbling from his split lip.

"How _dare _you, you filthy slave! John, I hope you don't believe this garbage." Mary turned to John with hopeful eyes. "He's just lying, you know how slaves are."

"Please leave Mary." John whispered, shaking his head.

"Why? Please John, I'd never cheat on you, I swear! Me and Mike are just friends."

"You slapped Sherlock. Please leave."

Mary stared at him in shock a moment, before nodding and quietly taking her leave.

Sherlock was gazing out the window, ignoring him.

"Why'd you have to do that, Sherl." John sighed, brushing his thumb over the red mark on his cheek.

"She was being unfaithful to you." Sherlock replied, moving away from his touch. "It's my duty to keep you safe."

"Sherlock…"

"Do you still want a drink?" his pet stood up and walked over to the kitchen. "Water or juice?"

"Water, thanks. Sherlock, you have to stop doing this." John followed him, trying to grasp his hand.

"Doing what." He replied flatly, pulling a cup from the cupboard.

"Deducing the fuck out of everyone? It'll get you hurt someday. Slaves aren't supposed to act like this…" John leaned against the counter, accepting the drink from Sherlock's hand.

"What, you want me to shut up and keep my opinions to myself like a good little slave? I think we've gotten to the point where we know that'll never happen." Sherlock scoffed.

John frowned. "I know, and I don't want you to change. It's just that everyone's not as lenient as to slave behavior as I am."

"So?"

"Sherlock, you could be badly hurt!"  
Sherlock spun to glare at John. "Listen, I can take care of myself. I'm not a fragile little flower, believe it or not."

"I know, Sherlock, I know. I'm just saying… I just don't want you to… be…" John struggled to find the right thing to say, failing greatly.

"John, I can take care of myself. You're father's discipline and the time I spent at the-" Sherlock's throat seemed to close off, choking on his words. The word _'pound'_ seemed to drift through the air silently between them. "… taught me how to take care of myself. So stop worrying."

"Sherlock…" John bit his lip. Sherlock always refused to talk about his short life before the Watson household, refused to talk about the pound. John knew enough about slavery facilities though, about the torturous abuse many young slaves endured. Many pounds were corrupt, some children being beaten and raped from ages as young as one.

"Let's go watch some tv. Mary wont be coming back." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and together they retired to the couch, all thoughts abandoned for a little while as they leaned against each other and just… enjoyed each others company.

-o0o-

"Oi! Slave boy!" Harry threw the door open, and stumbled in.

Sherlock groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He glanced at the kitchen clock; it was about 2 in the morning. Uncurling from his blanketed spot on the floor, he turned to face John's drunken sister.

"What is it Harry?" Sherlock asked politely. "Can I get you anything?"

"Where's John? I needa talk ta John. Where's he Slave boy?" Harry glared at Sherlock, a violent glint to her eye. He knew from early on Harry was not a nice drunk, and it was best to keep his thoughts to himself and keep up behavioral expectations.

"I'm afraid he' s out, ma'am." Sherlock replied. "You could ring him if you like."

"Naw, naw. No matter. Get me a couple beers, slave boy. I'm thirsty."

"Ma'am, you know Mrs. Watson dislikes you drinking in the house." Sherlock said, struggling to remain respectful.

"Oi, you'll do what I tell you to slave boy, or you'll get a beatin' coming t'ya." Harry snapped, raising her fist.  
"Yes ma'am." Sherlock nodded, keeping his back to the wall. "Right away ma'am."

"Good. Get on it." She took a heavy seat at the kitchen table and watched Sherlock get a beer from the fridge. "Ya know, if I weren't a dyke I'd totally tap that ass."

Sherlock ignored her, knowing she got like this every time she was drunk. Still, it made him uneasy. She wasn't the only one who made comments like this, some of John's friends (and Harry's friends) said things that made him less than comfortable.

All Sherlock could think of was that he was lucky he wasn't one of _those _kinds of slaves. A 'bedroom slave'.

At that thought, memories of his childhood smashed at the back of his head, and he forced himself to concentrate on Harry and the beer he was giving her. You'd think after almost twelve years he'd have forgotten about the pound, but with a mind like his, he knew he never would.

"Here you go ma'am."

"Good boy. Do you want a doggie treat?" Harry sneered, taking a swig.

"No thank you ma'am." He said through clenched teeth, battling not to say anything sharp back.

"Well I think you're just a swell li'l slave, I do. Nice and obedient." Her barbed tongue seemed to lick Sherlock's heart, that word 'obedient' burnt into him. Obedience, disobedience, that was his life.

No… no shut up. John was his life. His life belonged to John. _He _belonged to John. That thought was more comforting than it should've been.

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when Harry left, and stumbled over to the phone.

Usually he could handle it, handle everyone's words and sneers, handle the memories, handle the all the things that seemed to build up inside him, weighing down his heart, but tonight… tonight wasn't one of those nights.

He fumbled with the phone and dialed carefully, holding it up to his ear.

After a few rings, the other end picked up. "'ello?"

"Hi… how are you? I take it you're having fun if you're still up." Sherlock smiled, feeling John's voice take it's effect.

"Sherlock! What're _you _doing up?" The frown was evident in John's voice. "Anyway, yeah. We're having fun."

"You and you're little sleepovers. Painting each others nails?" Sherlock joked, leaning against the wall.

"Oh shut up. Anyway, anything wrong?"

"No…"

"Sherlock. You're seriously gong to play this game now? Just tell me what's up. You're calling at 2am."

"Just… nothing. Harry dropped by. She says hi." Sherlock sighed, gazing out the window into the night.

"Drunk?"

"Yep."

"She didn't… hurt you, did she?"

"No of course not." Sherlock muttered, sliding down to sit on the floor, shivering from the chill.

"Did she say anything to you?"

"Nothing a slave doesn't deserve to hear."

"…Sherlock…"

"I'm fine John. I just wanted to… I just was having trouble… I don't know. With everything. It's no big deal." He growled at his own in articulation. "Have fun at your sleep over."

"No wait- Sherlock, if you ever want to talk about anything… _anything_, don't hesitate. It's fine. It's all fine." The sound of John's friends in the background, '_Is that your girlfriend John?'_, made Sherlock bristle.  
"It's my- it's just my friend." Sherlock heard John reply. "Anyway, I got to go Sherlock, if there' s nothing else you wanted to say. Try and get some sleep, ok? I'll be back in the morning."

Sherlock nodded, even though he knew John couldn't see him. "Have fun."

As John hung up, Sherlock sighed. It hurt, that he missed John. Even when he was away for a little while, he missed his master like the separation was that of his heart, like something was being pulled from him. Every day when John was at school, Sherlock felt like something was missing. He was all alone, left to be looked down upon by John's family and their visitors. When John was gone, Sherlock was just a slave. When John was here, Sherlock was a friend. Sherlock was a person.

He walked over and lay down on his blanket, missing the warmth of John's bedroom, where when he was younger he could curl up on the carpet in a sleeping bag and pretend he was one of John's school friends at a sleepover, not his pet. Alas, Mr. Watson had long since banned Sherlock from sleeping where "respectable folk" were to sleep. He was a dog; he would sleep in the kitchen.

Only too right, of course, but still. He missed it.

He remembered that afternoon, with the drama with Mary. He felt bad, admittedly, for ruining John's relationship. But still, he wouldn't stand to let someone take advantage of his Master. It was his duty to keep him safe, in body and in spirit. No bitch with a loose concept of faithfulness was going to hurt his John.

-o0o-

Jeanette was a nice girl, a bit shy, but very pretty. She reminded John a bit of Sherlock actually, appearance wise. She was very tall, and had very dark hair.

Sherlock hated her.

"Sorry ma'am. I'm sure your diet will work out eventually. You only gained three pounds after all." Sherlock smiled cheerfully as he handed her a sandwich.

"…two pounds." Jeanette whispered, looking away.

"Nope. It's three." Sherlock glanced at John. "Oh, and John. I was cleaning your bedroom, but accidentally spilt some window washing fluid on your porn magazines. Only one was ruined though, the rest were salvageable."

John blushed, and Jeanette bit her lip.

That relationship lasted about four days.

After two more lost girlfriends, John couldn't deny the fact Sherlock was sabotaging his love life any longer.

"Sherlock! What, what, what, what, WHAT is you're problem? Can I _not_ have a girlfriend? Is that what you're saying?" John snapped one day, pushing Sherlock onto the couch.

"They weren't good enough for you anyways, John." Sherlock mumbled, eyes averted.

"Sherlock…"

John's third girlfriend, Sarah, was not as pretty as Mary, Jeanette, or the other two girlfriends, but in every other was she was far more beautiful. Her personality shone like the sun and her smile was to die for.

John made sure to spend quite a bit of time with her before taking her home, to be sure she was right. Hopefully things would work out this time, because Jesus Sarah was lovely. He was very reluctant to introduce her to his girlfriend-hating slave though… but god Sarah was wonderful…

"John! Are you paying attention to me?" Sarah giggled from across the picnic bench.

"Only too much, apparently. No clue what you said, but I can now paint your face from memory." John flirted, smiling.

Sarah leaned forward and pecked him on the lips.

"How about we head on over to my house for lunch?" John suggested. "I should warn you though, I've got a, um, a slave. His name is Sherlock." He wasn't going to make the same mistake as last time. Better warn her beforehand.

"Oh… well, that's nice. What's he like?"

"ah… Slave-ish?" John shrugged. "No, actually, he's really different. He's… um… he's actually a really good friend of mine. But he can be kind of… well, emotional isn't quite the right word, but he doesn't exactly keep his thoughts to himself when it comes to other people."

"Well that's not a very good slave attitude, now is it." Sarah joked. "'Oi, slave, pick that up.' 'Do it yourself, lazy ass!'"

"It's mostly my fault actually, haha. We grew up together, and I never really treated him like most people treat slaves. But he tries, he really does. When people come over he does his best to maintain the slave attitude, he's just not really good at it." John shrugged. "Though I should tell you, he er, he doesn't like it when I date. He has a tendency to try and sabotage my relationships, so don't take anything he says to heart. I think he's just worried I'll abandon him."

"He sounds like a good person, nonetheless. It's sad he was born into slavery." Sarah held his hand as they walked to the car.

"I don't even know if he was born into slavery or not. We bought him when he was four, but I don't know how long he spent at the… at the pound." John bit his lip.

Sarah glanced at him. "God can only hope it wasn't too long. Pounds are not… the best places."

"When I first met him, I remember asking him what they called him at the pound. I was trying to come up with a name for him. Do you know what he said?" John glanced at Sarah. "…he said they called him a whore. He refuses to tell me what happened at the pound, or how long he was there, but…"

"Yeah." She whispered. "Poor darling."  
"Oh you won't call him a darling when you meet him, trust me. But yeah… though if he knew I felt sorry for him, he'd probably try and strangle me." John laughed, and together they drove down the road.

Sherlock was outside tending the garden when the arrived, he was in a soiled t-shirt with dirt up to his elbows as he fought with a bunch of dead weeds.

"Hey Sherlock!" John smiled, stepping out of the car.

"John, these fucking weeds are trying to kill me! Do you have any…" Sherlock noticed Sarah walk over to stand beside John. "…sorry Master. How are you this afternoon. Who's your lovely madam?"

"It's fine Sherlock. This is Sarah, you don't have to put the act. Sarah, this is Sherlock." John grinned.

Sarah walked over and offered her hand. "Hi! My name's Sarah Sawyer."

Sherlock stared at the hand a moment, shocked. No one shook hands with a slave, it just wasn't done. Especially not a slave with dirt up to his elbows.

"I'm… I'm Sherlock." Sherlock nodded slightly, not taking the hand. "Pleased to meet your acquaintance."

"By the way, John warned me of your anti-girlfriend tendencies, so I'll tell you that wont work with me. I'm sticking with John for the time being, so no funny stuff." She winked, and turned to John. "Shall we go in?"

"Sure. C'mon Sherlock, let' s get you cleaned up. It's far too cold to be working outside. Let alone in a t-shirt."

Together the three walked to the house, and Sarah watched while John pulled his slave to the kitchen.

"So, how are you? Boring day?" John asked while he helped Sherlock clean the filth off his arms.

"As always John. Maybe if you hadn't run off on a Saturday it would've been less boring." Sherlock hinted, but John only chuckled.

"Sherlock, I cant base my entire life around you." John immediately felt a pang of guilt in his gut, _But he bases his entire life around me. _

Sherlock could either read his thoughts or was thinking the same thing, because he looked away with a frown.

It was only proper for a slave to do so, but it still made John feel like shit.

**TBC**


	2. The Loss of Being a Person

_**Chapter 2 The Loss of Being a Person  
**_

That evening John and Sherlock snuggled up on the couch, Sherlock's head nestled in the crook of John's arm and John's hand draped across his pet's side. It was their usual TV-watching position, one that John's father scorned but one that was comfortable, convenient, and comforting for both parties.

However, that night the TV was decidedly boring, so John decided it was nigh time to learn more about his friend. Sherlock had been his for twelve years, and yet… John knew nothing about him. Of course it was natural for there to be some distance between a slave and his master, but it was painfully obvious by then that the two didn't necessary have a conventional relationship.

"What happened to your parents?" John finally asked, aware of how the body in his arms tense immediately, then shifted slightly.

"John…"

"I know, I know. You don't talk about these things, I know. But it's been so long Sherlock, it's like I don't even know you." He whispered, not bothering to be delicate.

"You don't _want_ to know me." Sherlock muttered, voice strangely raw.

"I do want to. Good, bad, I want to know everything."

"I'm your slave John. There's no ignoring that fact, you own me. It's not necessary for you to be so interested in my personal life."

"We're practically cuddling on the sofa, and you're talking about master/slave conventions?" John smirked. "You're not just my slave, Sherlock. You're my friend. My best friend. And you can trust me." They lay in silence for the longest time, long enough for John to start preparing another speech in his head, when…

"They sold me when I was two." Sherlock finally muttered. "My own parents sold me into slavery. I can't remember what they looked like… but I've got all the official documents saying they got a hefty sum of money for me."

"What was your last name?" John asked quietly, not sure why he thought that relevant or important. But there was something about Sherlock having a last name that ensured a certain… person-ness about him. That he wasn't always a slave, but once a person with rights.

"I can't really remember, I haven't looked at the papers in ages. I was never given a first name, but my family surname was Holmes, I think." Sherlock shrugged.

"You were so given a first name. It's Sherlock." John chuckled.

"Named after a _cat_."

"A name's a name!" John jabbed him with his elbow, and they both giggled a little.

They let themselves fall into a comfortable silence a few moments, before John whispered,

"I feel bad for your parents."

Sherlock flinched, "What?"

"…because of their stupidity and douchebaggery, they've missed out on one of the most wonderful human beings on the planet." John hugged his pet, his friend, closer and together they let themselves drift to sleep.

-o0o-

Sarah knew from the beginning it wasn't going to work out. Gazing at her boyfriend and his slave, she knew there was no way she could come between them. She wondered if John's other girlfriend's had been chased away by Sherlock, or if they had seen the truth as well.

Sherlock would always come first in John's life. It was almost like John belonged to Sherlock as much as Sherlock belonged to John.

It wasn't even so much that Sarah knew she'd never come first, but that she couldn't bring herself to come between the two. They were so… happy together. John needed Sherlock, and Sherlock obviously needed John. It wasn't her place, nor her right, to ruin what they had.

So she dialed John about two weeks of dating, with a heavy heart and yet an acceptance that wouldn't allow this to burden her too heavily.

"John? I think… I think we should break up. No it's not Sherlock's fau- well, maybe a little. But not like that, John. You two… you two need each other. I can't come between you two, and I don't want to. Yes John, I really like you too. But this won't work out. It's truly not Sherlock's fault, it's just that you'll be much happier with him than you'll ever be with me, or with anyone else probably. It might take sometime for you to realize it, but it's the truth. You'll see. Yes, John. I'm sorry. Bye."

Sherlock knew John was hurt by Sarah's phone call, even before John said a word about what she'd said.

He offered his sympathies; he knew John had really liked Sarah. He himself admitted she was the least annoying of all John's girlfriends.

"Was it my fault?..." Sherlock whispered, holding John close. "I'm so sorry…"

"No… no it's not your fault." John muttered into Sherlock's shirt. "I just cant believe it. I really thought it would work out this time."

"You'll find someone." Sherlock assured, feeling his heartbreak all the same at the thought of John finally leaving him. One day… one day John would fall in love and marry. He'd have no need for a lowly slave, and what would become of Sherlock? Would John sell him? To whom?

Sherlock refused to think about it, the thoughts become to dark, and John needed his comfort now.

"Do you want some tea? I'll get you some tea." Sherlock sat John down on the couch. "Tea cures all ails."

John grinned sadly, and Sherlock smiled back. He quickly put on a kettle, and went through the familiar process as natural as breathing.

Coming back with tea, Sherlock found John napping lightly. Instead of waking him, he set the tea down and curled up on the floor beside the couch and leaned into the hand flung over the side, and allowed himself to drift off as well.

John woke up several hours later, surprised to see his dear friend snoring softly, leaning against the couch.

Quietly, he crept off to find a blanket, and pulled it over Sherlock's skinny form. John gazed down at his pet, and brushed his thumb over his sharp cheekbones, mulling over Sarah's words. They way she spoke; it was almost as though she saw them as a couple.

But that wasn't… that wasn't an option. First of all, John was straight. Admittedly, he saw the beauty in Sherlock. Saw the sex appeal. Saw… no. Enough of that. And second of all, master/slave relations didn't allow romantic relationships. Sexual, sure. There was an abundance of sex slaves on the market. But for a master to fall in love with his slave… that just wasn't done.

Then John realized what he was doing, stroking Sherlock's face. He wouldn't do that to anyone else would he? Friends don't touch like they did. Friends don't curl up together on the couch to watch telly. Lovers though…

No. No they were just very close, that's all. They grew up together, for fucks sakes. Of course they'd have a level of intimacy others didn't. That didn't mean they were a couple…

-o0o-

"John, John wake, up, you'll be late for school."

John groaned, blearily cracking open his eyes to gaze at his slave. "Jesus, what time is it?"

"Time to get up! You'll be late. Hurry up. I've got your lunch made, and here's your uniform. Don't forget your assignment, I've put it on the kitchen table by your books." Sherlock paused and glanced over at him. "John you don't look so good."

John grunted, feeling his throat close up and he let out a little cough. His chest felt like an elephant was sitting on him and his headache pounded a steady drumbeat.

Sherlock's elegant hand reached over and rested on his forehead, feeling his temperature.

"Ignore all that then. You're staying in bed. I'll call the school to say you're sick." Sherlock frowned.

"Yes mum." John rasped, smiling.  
"Shut up. If you need anything, just call me." Sherlock patted him on the head and moved to leave.  
"Tea would be nice."  
"Of course."

John rolled over and closed his eyes, feeling heat radiate off his face, but shivered in chill. He hated being sick.

A few minutes later, Sherlock returned with tea and a bowl of broth.

"Drink and eat slowly." Sherlock ordered, helping John upright. His gentle hands on John's body felt unexpectedly nice, comforting.

"Look who's giving orders now." John joked quietly, and Sherlock smiled ruefully.

"I wish I could do it more often. It's nice." Sherlock sighed, and John felt guilt immediately. Sherlock shot him a glare, as if sensing his guilt, and as though scolding him for it.

"I'm fine as a slave though." His friend amended after a moment, and John inwardly winced, not feeling any better about it. By now he should've gotten over the guilt at the misbalance of power in their friendship, but it never got any easier.

Sherlock sat down beside his bed as John spooned broth down his burning throat.

Subconsciously, John's hand drifted down and his fingers ran through his slave's dark curls. Sherlock leaned into the touch, and sighed again.

After he was done drinking his tea, John retracted his hand and snuggled back against his pillow, letting his eyes slide closed. His hand once again found it's way to Sherlock, and he fell asleep with it resting on his pet's head.

Sherlock enjoyed the contact, but after his master fell asleep, he got up and collected John's dishes. He was setting about the task of cleaning up when Mr. Watson bumped into him in the hall.

"Sherlock! Why's John not getting ready?" Mr. Watson growled, looming over Sherlock best he could.

"Sorry sir, John is not well. I'll call the school to let them know he is too ill to attend today." Sherlock bowed his head slightly, ever still fearful of Mr. Watson's discipline.

"Well good then. You can make my breakfast, than do Harriet's laundry." Mr. Watson ambled over to the computer, as Sherlock uttered a weak "Yes sir."

Sherlock deposited the dishes into the sink for later cleaning, and set about Mr. Watson's breakfast.

He winced as he accidentally burnt the toast, knowing he would surely be punished for it later regardless of how perfect his second attempt would be. He hated orders from Mr. Watson, for no matter what he could never get them right. And he hated being wrong, and he hated being punished for he felt like a child again.

He was almost seventeen, he no longer needed beatings. He no longer needed 'no supper for you!', no more 'sleep outside tonight!'. Sherlock Holmes was not made for slave life, despite slave life being all he knew.

A backhand and a scolding later, Sherlock was left to nurse his bruised cheek and clean up Harry's messy room.

He let out a sigh of relief when Mr. Holmes left for work, and continued his duties with new relaxation and vigor. Soon enough he was scrubbing the dishes when John's quiet voice called his name.

"Yes John?" He peered into his room.

"Some water please?" John croaked.

"Of course. And some painkillers?"

"Yes please. Thanks Sherl."

Sherlock quietly gathered John's requests, and helped John sit up. "Here, once again, drink slow."

He then handed John the pills, and held John's cup for him while he took them. He yelped in surprise when John grasped him and pulled him onto the bed.

With difficulty he sat the cup on John's bedside table, and let his master pull him into an embrace. Soon enough they found their usual position, Sherlock with his head in the crook of John's arm curled up to his chest, and John with one hand around his back and one carding through his hair.

"I don't know what I'd do without you Sherl." John's voice was ragged with sickness, and his breath heavy.

"And I you John." That was a lie. Without John? Sherlock would be dead.

-o0o-

John was fully recovered a few days later, and was back in school.

Sherlock missed John terribly, and felt guiltily disappointed when John got better and left him again.

John, felt guilty at leaving Sherlock again. But he knew he had to. Soon enough he was back in school, wondering what Sherlock was doing at home. If he was ok. If he was finding things to entertain himself with. If his father was being cruel again.

"Oi! John!" A voice startled him. Victor was waving at him. "You daydreaming or what?"

"No, no. I just spaced out. What's up?"

"Me and the guys were wondering if he could go over to your house for band practice tonight instead of Mike's. His father's got a meeting or something going on there." Victor replied.  
Shit, John forgot all about band practice. Sherlock would be pissed of he let the guys come over, he hated it when John had band practice at all let alone when John brought people over.

There was a reason they never had practice at his house, his slave would throw a flying fit.

"Sure." John finally sighed; he couldn't let the band down. He'd already missed enough practices to have them annoyed with him.

"Great, thanks. I'll let the guys know. We'll get our stuff from the music room and head on over together after school?"

"Sure, sure. No problem. My parents are out of town for the night and my sister's at her girlfriends." But his slave was sitting by the door waiting for him and would probably bite his head off for not letting him know people would be over.

He dreaded that afternoon for the rest of the school day, and soon enough he and the guys were walking down the street with their gear on their backs. Luckily John had a couple of amps at the house, so they didn't have to worry about lugging those all the way there.

They arrived at the house within minutes, and John sucked in a breath and opened the door, stepping in.

Sherlock was predictably within eyesight of the door, waiting as usual. "John! I-" He stopped when he saw the other teens follow John through the door.

"Who's that?" Victor frowned, setting his bass guitar by the stairwell.

"Um, this is my slave. His name's Sherlock." John muttered, glancing apologetically at Sherlock while the other glared back.

"Oh hey cool!" Another guy named Ben grinned. "I've always wanted a slave. My parents have one, but he's no good for anything but you know… bed stuff." Ben winked.

Sherlock flinched, bowing his head. "Good afternoon, sirs. Can I get you anything."

"Hey John, do you ever, you know, get him to do dirty stuff?" Mike grinned, ignoring Sherlock.

John flinched, gasping. "What?"

"You know, ordering him to suck you off or anything. He _is _a slave after all. You can tell him to do anything you want, you know." Victor leered at Sherlock. "Can we have some fun with him for a bit?"

"What? I- no I never have done tha- and no, I-" John stuttered, shocked at this turn of events. Make Sherlock do that sort of thing with him? The thought had never crossed his mind, and never did he want it to again. He'd never betray Sherlock's trust in him like that…

He noticed Ben edging closer to Sherlock, a predatory glint in his eye.

"Wait- Ben leave him alone! I-" John stepped forward, but the guitarist, Jeff, held him back.

"We're just gonna have some fun, no harm in that, John!" He chuckled. "He's just a slave after all, it's his duty to take orders."

John was speechless, he didn't know what to do, what to say. All he saw was Sherlock's terrified expression, the way he backed into the wall while Victor and Ben approached him.

"Hey slave, you're awfully pretty for a pet." Victor drawled, hand running down Sherlock's skinny chest.

"Leave me alone please." Sherlock breathed, voice forcibly calm, but eyes bright with panic and fear.  
"Is that any way to talk to respectable folk?" Ben growled, pushing his knee against Sherlock's legs and hand grasping Sherlock's jaw forcefully.

"N- No, stop!" John's pet's mask broke, and his voice conveyed his utter terror.

"Stop! You guys, let him go!" John cried, struggling against Jeff and Mike's hold. "Don't touch him!"  
"C'mon John! We're not gonna hurt him! Just play with him for a bit. He's not good for much else." Victor called back, hand slipping down the back of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock flinched and struggled against the boy's hold, begging them to leave him alone, looking bloody well near tears.

"Hush slave, don't make us order you. Cuz you know what happens to slave's who refuse orders." Ben whispered, tongue slipping out to brush against Sherlock's ear.

"They get put down like the filthy mutts they are." Victor replied, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's collarbone, biting down and sucking, making Sherlock cry in pain.

"LET HIM GO!" John hollered, finally pushing his band members off him. He rushed over and shoved his friends away. "_No one_ touches Sherlock like that! No one! Not me, not you, not anyone, unless Sherlock wants them to! Now get the fuck out of my house!" John was furious. John would about ready to kill someone. The rest of the band could tell.

They left quickly, almost forgetting their instruments behind.

"Have fun with your pet." Victor sneered in passing as he left. John nearly through a vase at him.

Once the door slammed, John spun around and turned his attention to Sherlock.

His slave was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, breath heaving and silent tears dripping down his jaw.

John knelt beside him, and pulled him into an embrace. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. If I'd have known this would happen, I'd never have brought them here."

Sherlock just shook his head a little, and leaned against him. "…not you're fault… just

…I never thought… I never thought I'd be touched like that again…" His voice was wet with pain and tears.

"…the pound?" John whispered, running his hand down Sherlock's spine in a soothing manner. Sherlock nodded, near sobbing. "Did they… did they, you know…"  
"I lost my virginity when I was three." Sherlock rasped, "Yes. Yes they did."

John couldn't say anything else, his heart was in shards and he felt like everything was blurry except this boy in his arms. Nothing else mattered, but this boy in his arms.

They sat crying and holding each other for a good long while, until they ran out of tears.

John finally helped Sherlock up, and pulled him into the kitchen to tend to the bite mark on his clavicle.

They said nothing, because at that moment, nothing needed to be said.

There was a bit of blood smeared across Sherlock's neck, the bite mark oozing it slowly. His pet flinched as John disinfected the wound, and carefully dabbed at it with a cotton ball.

He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a pack of plasters and pressed one against the mark.

"I'm so sorry…" John murmured again, leaning against his friend and pressing his nose against Sherlock's neck. "…I can't believe I let this happen."

"It's not your fault… you got them to leave in the end. Nothing happened." Sherlock quietly replied, voice gravelly.

"It almost happened though. And they were touching you, they would've… they would've… if I hadn't stopped it in time…" John whimpered, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's scrawny body, sorrow and hatred boiling inside him. The thought of what almost happened to his beloved friend, the thought of what he'd gone through in the past…

"You stopped it in time." Sherlock pulled John to him and together they slid down to sit on the floor. "I'm alright. We're alright. I was just… scared."

Sherlock never admitted emotions, Sherlock had a wall, and the fact it was broken at that moment made John want to hit something, preferably his band member's faces, and maybe even every member of the local slavery pound.

"It's ok… it's ok to be scared." John murmured. "Sherlock, I know I've said it before but I'll say it again. If you ever want to, or need to, talk… I'm here. I'm always here. No judgment, just… if you ever…" He sighed, placing his lips on Sherlock's forehead. "I hate knowing you're in pain, I hate knowing you're suffering. That you've gone through so much…"

"I'm fine John… it was so long ago… I'm fine." Sherlock replied, voice tight. John knew that with a mind as brilliant and sharp as his pet's, time was irrelevant in regards to memories.

"You're not fine, and I… I just want to help you Sherl."

Sherlock nodded, nuzzling his face against John's school uniform, shoulders shaking.

"… at the pound, it was customary for the children to be beaten regularly. They'd starve us and abuse us… but every once and a while a few of the guards would pull me out of my cage and…" Sherlock took a shuddering breath. "Usually they'd just touch me, calling me a good little whore… but more than once they… I… I couldn't get them to stop and they just wouldn't stop… I was so small; there was nothing I could do and they… I… I should've tried to fight them off… tried harder but they…"

"Sherlock it wasn't your fault. You were so young, there was nothing you could've done." John breathed, rubbing his hand over Sherlock's back. "…did you ever go to a doctor? After they… you know…"

"…There was a doctor at the pound. I was so tiny; I was bleeding really bad and needed stitches… but I was never… er, tested."

"We should take you to the doctor's then, just in case. Oh Sherlock, I'm so so sorry this happened to you, oh my Sherl…" John pulled Sherlock even closer if that were possible.

They sat there, and let themselves believe in simpler things.

-o0o-

John was graduating high school in a month, and from there would be making plans for uni. Sherlock begged him not to go, begged as much as a slave _could_ beg without being put down for disobedience. University was no place for a slave, John would be leaving Sherlock behind.

The young slave knew his heart would break without his master. There would be nothing for him.

John did his best to convince Sherlock he would be home to visit soon, but in truth John himself felt like he was being torn in two. His schooling was important, but was it more important than Sherlock? _Ridiculous, one shouldn't even have to ask if their _slave_ was more important than university…_ But he has to ask, because he didn't know.

"Your father, John. He hates me, you can't leave me here! Please, John…" Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper.

"Mum's here Sherlock, she likes you! Pa won't hurt you while she's here." John assured, ruffling his slave's messy hair. "I'll be back soon. Just keep yourself entertained. And safe. I'll call every night, and you can call me whenever you want as often as you want. It'll be ok Sherl, I promise." John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, and after a hesitation, lifted his friend's face to peck him on the lips. "Good bye."

Sherlock watched John walk out the door, bag slung over his shoulder. Strange feelings were rattling around inside the slave, tearing him apart. Please stay, please touch me, please hug me, please kiss me…

But John was already gone.

-o0o-

The loneliness was borderline unbearable, it wore at him and tore at him like an internal hurricane. It was cold and blunt yet everlasting and Sherlock felt like it was taking hold of his life.

He wondered not for the first time if one could die of loneliness.

Sherlock went about his routines, cleaning and re-cleaning the already spotless house. Harry had joked he had OCD or mania or something, the way he constantly was cleaning. In truth it was just one of the very few distractions he had.

Mrs. Watson was a godsend though, letting him do the shopping and sending him on errands. There was nothing like breathing fresh air for once, stretching his legs as he walked to the store down the street.

He'd taken to reading as well, in secret of course. It was looked down upon for slaves to read, write, or do anything higher folk did. But Sherlock found himself falling in love with the written word, hiding away in the attic under the ruse of cleaning up, tucked away with one of the Watson's many stored books.

But always, _always_, Sherlock lived for those daily phone calls. Never did John disappoint, every evening at about six Sherlock sat by the phone, waiting, and always in minutes John rung.

On days when Mr. Watson was out for the evening, which was luckily often, the two would spend hours talking. Sherlock insisted on John telling him everything about his life, about his courses, his homework, his friends. About how he was feeling, the things he was doing, everything. In turn, John asked about how Sherlock was getting on, and together they would discuss books and literature. John would recommend book Sherlock should look for in the attic to read, would help him understand words Sherlock didn't know, and laugh with his friend about things that were funny.

And then there was that agonizing moment after the long goodbyes and that final deafening click, where Sherlock would sit there listening to the dial tone and feel his heart break all over again. Where the emptiness and loneliness would swamp him again and he'd fall back a few metaphorical steps to the beginning. He'd sit there, thinking of the next twenty-four hours until John called again, and wondering how he'd survive them all over again.

But he always survived them, for weeks, he survived those long John-less hours, until one day six o'clock rolled around, and John did not phone.

Sherlock sat there waiting, waiting and waiting and waiting until six o'clock turned to seven, seven to eight, and then Mr. Watson got home and hit him for being lazy and Sherlock had to pick himself up and take a few dejected steps away from the phone, feeling lost.

He was tempted to call John, his master _had_ said he could call whenever he wanted, but it hurt too much to seem so dependent, even though he was.

Luckily, after another twenty-four hours, John called the next day and apologized for not ringing, saying he had so much homework. Maybe it was because Sherlock forced himself to act like it wasn't a big deal, that John neglected to call again a few days later.

Sherlock grew more and more broken as the gaps between phone calls grew, and eventually his mental state worried himself into physical illness. Every morning he'd wake up fatigued, with a pounding headache and an upset stomach. He found himself unable to do things he used to, finding it difficult to work up the strength to clean, found the laborious walk to the store almost unbearable.

Eventually, Mr. Watson put his foot down.

"He's completely useless!" He yelled to Mrs. Watson. "His cleaning has turned half-arsed, it takes ages for him to return from the store, and _he sleeps all the fucking time_!"

"Take it easy love… John leaving has been hard on him." Mrs. Watson muttered, shooting a glance at where Sherlock sat obediently in the kitchen corner.

"I say we sell him. He's doing no good here, and John wont be back anytime soon. He's just not worth the cost of living anymore!" Mr. Watson growled.

"But John would be so upset, love just think about it…"

"I don't give a shit. John's not here. I'll take the mutt to the pound tomorrow and see if I can get any money for him. From there, he's their problem." Mr. Watson glared at Sherlock, "Though they'll probably just end up putting the lazy bitch down anyway."

Sherlock flinched, the pound? No… oh god no… Please no… he wouldn't survive. He didn't want to survive. The less time he spent at the pound the better.

Oh god… he'd never see John again.

-o0o-

John frowned, sitting at his desk with his mobile to his ear. Sherlock never took this long to pick up, he always answered right away. His worry grew as he got to the answering machine, and found he didn't know what to leave as a message.

"Um, hey. Uh… if Sherlock's there could he call me back? Or mum, could you get Sherlock to call me? I uh… I mean, thanks. See you, er, talk to you soon. Bye." With that he hung up, and tried to resist the urge to call again. It'd been almost a week since he last called, and he felt incredibly guilty. Schoolwork had been taking over, and of course that necessary university partying. Anything could've happened in a week, maybe Sherlock had gotten himself hurt! God knows the slave had a knack for getting himself in trouble. Hell he felt awful, if only he'd called earlier.

He busied himself with his homework, ignoring his roommate when he walked in offering a beer.

"John? What's wrong?"

"Sorry Greg… it's just… I think something's happened at home." John gulped, glancing at his phone again.

"Like what? Is it about your sister?" Gregory Lestrade sat down beside him.

"No… it's Sherlock. My slave I told you about. He always picks up when I call, always… but no one did today. I'm worried about him."

"Hey, don't fret about it mate. I'm sure he's fine. From what you've told me, he's a tough little bugger." Greg clapped him on the back and walked away, but John couldn't get rid of that niggling feeling inside that something was horribly wrong.


	3. Esclavo to Love You

**Chapter 3: Esclavo To Love You**

Sherlock woke up with a crick in his back he feared may grow permanent if he stayed in this goddamned cage much longer. He'd forgotten how horrid they were, the way the metal mesh pressed against your skin and you had to contort your body just to fit. It didn't help he was pretty sure he had a couple cracked ribs from the beating he'd received upon arrival, sharp pains lancing through him with every breath.

He could hear the pained howls of beaten slaves, the sobs of new arrivals, the overall air of disparity and sorrow. The air stank of urine and blood, and the holding room was too hot in the day and too cold at night.

At the moment, Sherlock shivered, moonlight filtering through the barred jail cell-like window behind his cage. The chill seeped through his aching bones, and he quietly let out a sigh of pain.

He shifted, wincing, to be able to peer around his shoulder and watch the door of the holding room, as attendants continuously walked in and out, checking up on slaves, kicking cages of the noisy ones, and giving food to those who'd been starved for days.

One attendant peered down at him, and smirked. "Wow, you're a beauty, aren't you."

He didn't react, used to the leering words by now. Most attendants passing his cage made some comment, and this one's was by far one of the most innocent ones.

He'd been stuck here for a few days, cramped and starving, but his main fear was of the upcoming physical examination.

It was necessary for all slaves to go through one before going up for sale on the market. Sherlock knew for a fact from both what other's said and from experience that the examinations were never clean and professional. He could only hope that they wouldn't… that they wouldn't r-… that they…

Fuck it. He knew they would. They always did. When the pretty ones were brought in, they always did. And from what the pound attendants had been shouting at him since he arrived, he definitely constituted as one of the pretty ones.

A few days later after two more beatings, when his cage door was opened, it was all he could not to cry out in fear. Hands grabbed him by the collar they'd shoved on him, and pulled him out. He struggled to keep his legs under him as he was shoved to his feet, muscles screaming from the sudden movement from his cramped position and injuries, and the sickness that plagued him since John's departure.

Three men surrounded him, one clasped a leash onto his collar and another punched him in the back between his shoulder blades to get him walking.

They lead him through a hall full of cages, slaves of all sort watching him as the men paraded him across.

Sherlock was pushed through a door, into a white room that in any other building would be called a doctor's office. Sherlock saw it for what it was though, a torture chamber.

A man in a deceptively white lab coat took the leash from the attendants, and pulled Sherlock to the center of the room, and conducted the routine.

Measuring height (satisfactory, impressive), measuring weight (scrawny, underfed, but it'll do), reflexes (nice), then jotting down notes on his appearance.

Then of course, his abilities. Can you clean? Can you read? How about cooking? …and how are you in the bedroom?

Sherlock know what they were thinking. The only way they'd be able to sell Sherlock was as a sex slave. He was too weak and ill to do much manual labour, his only redeeming attribute was his looks.

He cringed as the 'doctor' consulted with his colleague, overhearing their exchange of words.

"…feminine, just enough so that straight buyers will have no qualms with using him. Yes, and small enough he'd be easily sent to submission, despite his height. I suppose all that's left is to test his abilities?"

Sherlock shrank away, mentally begging for death as they doctor's approached him. Please, god, no… please no… please…

There was little he could do, he was too weak to fight.

-o0o-

"John? What is it?" John's mum picked up on the third ring.  
"Where's Sherlock? I've been calling for days and no one's picked up!" John almost shouted.

There was a silence that seemed to stab at John's heart, until his mum replied,

"Oh he's fine John. I've been sending him on lots of errands; naturally he'd have trouble catching your calls. He misses you something awful though, hon." There was something in his mum's voice, something that kept the relief at bay a moment longer.

"Are you sure he's ok?" John asked quietly.

"Just fine John. See you in a few weeks! Remember you promised us a visit!"

Click… John realized a few moments later he hadn't had time to ask her to get Sherlock to call back.

-o0o-

It could've been days, weeks, or months that Sherlock spent being shoved in a tiny cage, getting beaten, or being sent for 'examinations'.

Then one day, they pulled him into a different room, and shoved him into a tub of grimy water. The attendants used a burning, acidic smelling soap that stung as they scrubbed his skin raw, every inch of him. They pulled at his tangled hair, soaking it and using a vaguely flowery scented shampoo to clean out the grunge and filth, then rinse it out.

The men roughly toweled him dry, ignoring his yelps of pain as they went over sore, bruised and cut spots. A brush was yanked through his hair, and he bit his lip to keep from whimpering.

Soon enough, Sherlock stood, trembling, in a line up of slaves. He felt bruised, used, and abused, and feeling even _more _filthy and disgusting. He looked like a whore. He felt like a whore. His feet and legs ached from tight fishnet stockings and knee high hooker boots, leather corset making breathing difficult. Sherlock's eyes stung from the abusive amount of makeup they'd packed on, eyeliner and smoky eye shadow.

A whore…

_That's what you are now Sherlock, that's all you'll ever be from now on…_

They were having an auction for sex slaves now, dolling each slave up in costumes that showed off the goods.

Worthless. A whore…

His tongue flicked out to taste the cherry lipstick coating his moth, shivering is self-hatred.

"Now, our lovely slave 14!" The attendant announced him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out of the lineup to the center stage. "Gorgeous, isn't it? Look at those cheekbones, and those plump lips. Can you imagine what that mouth could do? Slender, gorgeous, a perfect accessory for any bedroom! Have we got any bidders?"

Sherlock tried to avoid looking at the crowd, ignoring the shouts of bids, feeling his stomach roll. _A whore… a whore… a bedroom accessory…_

"We've got a two k, have we got a two fifty? How about a three? Three k, anyone else? Anyone? We've got thirty hundred dollars! Anyone else to bid? Thirty-five! We've got a thirty-five? Can we see a forty? And we've got a forty! Any one? Any one? Forty hundred dollars! Going once, going twice, sold! To the man in seat 6b! Come collect you're prize sir!"

Sherlock was pulled off the stage by several attendants and brought backstage, where he would await his buyer.

A man in a crisp business suite strode towards him, a leer on his face and a thick wallet open.

His owner quickly made his payment, and went about filling out the forms.

"A Holmes kid, are you? Huh, what a find. I'd heard the family had sold off one of their kids a while back." The man commented, going over his files. "Sherlock huh? Who names you that? You're previous owner?"

Sherlock stayed quiet, eyes to the floor.

"Oh don't be like that, love. How about we exchange info. My name's Sebastian Wilkes, but you, pet, can call me Master." Sebastian smirked, running his fingers over Sherlock's cheekbones. "You are really something. Man am I lucky. I can tell you'll be fun to play with."

Sherlock said nothing, feeling resigned to his fate. As soon as Sebastian took him to his house, Sherlock would find something sharp, and kill himself.

There was no living this life. It was not an option Sherlock would take.

He felt slightly smug that the douche bag had just wasted four thousand dollars, if his face didn't hurt so much he may have even smiled.

-o0o-

John got the news a couple days before he was due to visit home. His mum, voice hoarse with tears, left a message on his mobile. She said how sorry she was for lying to him, told him not to be too angry with his father, begged him not to hate her.

Sherlock was gone.

"Mate, where are you going?" Greg asked as John shoved a bunch of clothes in a suitcase, John wondered if his roommate, his friend, could see the tears running down his face.

"I- I- I've got to go. Now." John gasped, wiping his eyes.

"John? John calm down. Breath. What happened? Why are you crying?" Greg grasped John by the shoulders and forced him to stop.

"S- Sherlock. My father sold him. Oh god… god knows where is now! He could be hurt… he could be _sold_…" John hiccupped, feeling wretched. This was all his fault…

"C'mon mate, chin up. I'm sure he'll be fine. You're planning on looking for him, aren't you?" Greg let go, standing up. John nodded violently, biting his lip. "Then I'll help you. Hurry up and get your stuff while I pack. We'll find him John, don't worry."

Gregory Lestrade watched as his friend struggled to shove as much as he could in the suitcase, feeling incredibly sorry for him. He'd heard John's stories about Sherlock, and knew how much the slave meant to him. He couldn't imagine how John felt right now… Greg swore to do whatever was in his power to help him.

-o0o-

Sebastian's house was impeccably clean, and huge. Obviously this was a money guy. And definitely already had a few slaves, because no way did this suit wearing, sports car driving businessman do the cleaning himself.

Sherlock shivered, feeling Sebastian's hand on his waist as his owner guided him through the door. His eyes immediately fell to the open drawer in the kitchen, where several knives sat innocently, and noted them for future use.

His stomach rolled and his body ached as Sebastian pushed him into what was obviously the master bedroom, ghost hands moving over his skin as Sherlock remembered his previous ordeal at the pound. If he didn't get to the knives soon, the ordeal would only be prolonged and never be freed from.

"I have no use for you right now, so just sit in here pet. This room is your new home." Sebastian winked and shut the door.

Sherlock felt his body tremble, it'd been trembling for days now admittedly, but now it seemed to have grown worse. He cursed his own weakness.

The slave stood in the middle of the bedroom for a good few minutes, mind blank, until he stepped forward and tried the doorknob. Unlocked. Good.

Peeking out, he heaved a sigh of relief to see no sign of his new master, and carefully crept into the hall, trying to remember the way back to the kitchen. His whole body ached, but he forced himself to ignore the pain and keep at his plan.

The kitchen came into view, and despite the cracking of his joints as he moved, Sherlock sped up.

Grasping desperately at the drawer he'd seen on his way in, he pulled out a satisfyingly large and sharp knife, gazing at it with a certain lust.

Now what? Should he slit his throat? His wrists? What way would be faster? Pain wasn't an issue, he supposed. God knows it couldn't hurt more than living a life of sexual exploitation and abuse would. Time though, he had to be dead by the time he was found. He just wish he could leave some word for John though… just to say he was sorry.

God… John. Sherlock had forced himself not to think of him the whole time he was in the pound, forced himself not to think of how much it would hurt to leave him. But now… now with the knife in hand John was all that was in his mind.

Somehow, it only strengthened his resolve. He couldn't stand to think of John ever seeing him like this. John would never see this life Sherlock was forced into.

Without a second thought, Sherlock dug the knife into the skin of his left wrist, dragging it up deep into the vein, watching in satisfaction as blood immediately spilt over and coated his arm. With shaking hands, he slit his right wrist too, then cut into his left again, just for good measure.

Slowly he fell to his knees, feeling dizzy. Blood was gushing, flowing over and spilling over Sherlock's whore-costume. He smiled, and leaned his head against the counter and waited.

-o0o-

"Sorry sir, there's no slave by the name of Sherlock in this pound." The man at the desk apologized.

"Are you sure? Do you have any records of sold slaves?" Greg asked, placing a hand on John's shoulder to keep him from giving a biting remark.

"We do, would you like me to look at them for you?"

"Yes please." John said, voice tight. Greg's hand patted John in what he hoped was in a comforting manner, and led his friend over to the waiting chairs.

"I'm sure he'll be fine John. Don't worry; this is Sherlock we're talking about. The slave who once battled a whole nest of bees just to clear out the gutter." Greg chuckled, remembering one of John's favorite stories about his precious slave.

"Yeah… but Greg, he's already so vulnerable when it comes to… to abuse and that sort. Just being in a pound for long would probably break him!" John shook his head, "I don't know what to do Greg."

"'Ello? Sirs? We've got on record that a slave named Sherlock Holmes was bought earlier this afternoon." The receptionist called over, immediately the two university students rushed over.

"By who? Please tell me! Where does the buyer live?" John begged, leaning over the counter to try and intimidate the man.

"I'm afraid that's confidential, sir." Came the reply, but John grabbed the man by the collar.  
"Listen. That slave is my best friend- no, not just that. I bloody well _love_ him and I need to find him. Please. If you have any compassion in you, tell me where he is." John felt like crying would ruin his moment of badassery, but couldn't help it much in any case. He loved Sherlock. Loved him. Love.

There was silence too long for anyone's comfort, when the receptionist gave a quiet, breathy sigh.  
"A Mr. Sebastian Wilkes bought Sherlock this afternoon. On record, his living address is this." The receptionist scribbled an address on a sticky note and handed it to John. "My prayers for you and your … your lover."

John shook his head sadly. "…He doesn't know." With that tragedy hanging in the air, he pulled on Greg's sleeve and together they walked out of the pound with a new direction to drive.

-o0o-

So much blood, Sherlock felt like he was drowning. Was he dead yet? This was an awful lot of red for death. Or maybe he was in hell, he never believed in all that afterlife rubbish, but it if was true than it was only expected he'd end up Below.

Though, he was pretty sure hell didn't have sirens. Where was that noise coming from?

Voices, hands, oh god don't let them touch me, please no don't touch me…

He was being lifted; he felt the air push past him, the blood squelch obscenely as he was pulled from the pool on the floor.

An ambulance? No! They were saving him! No, no, no, no…

"Stop… stop…" Sherlock moaned breathlessly. "Don't…"

"Don't talk love. It'll be ok…"

_No it wont be ok… his heart was still beating…_

He heard a voice, screaming at him. His own name on their lips, a voice he should know… a voice he had to forget…

John…

-o0o-

John watched as his beloved was carted away, heart clenched painfully like it was trying to collapse on itself. Oh dear god Sherlock…

There had been something gruesomely beautiful about the way Sherlock lay so pale and unearthly, crimson blood smeared obscenely across his skin and over his skirt and stockings, his lipstick smudged at the corners of that delicate mouth. Such sexual gore, it made John feel sick to think about that sort of thing at a moment of such horror, but he could not deny how gorgeous Sherlock looked on his deathbed.

Oh god Sherlock… what have they done to you.

From the glimpses of Sherlock John had caught between the moment he'd arrived at the scene and the moment Sherlock was driven off in the ambulance, John could see the tell-tale signs of abuse, whether it was by Sebastian's hand or the pound, it didn't matter.

Deep violet bruises had dappled Sherlock's sharp cheekbones; accenting his already eye shadow donned eyes. His fishnet sleeves and leather corset didn't cover the rest of the damage, deep contusions and deliberate scrapes and scabs…

John and Greg quickly climbed into Greg's old Chevy, and sped after the ambulance, tailing it all the way to the hospital.

Once there, John came face-to-face with Sherlock's new owner.

"The little whore tried to off himself!" Sebastian's voice carried to John's ears from the waiting room. "The ungrateful little bitch nearly lost me 4 grand!"

John marched across the small, but rather crowded, room and promptly decked a douche bag.

Sebastian stared at John in shock from where he sprawled on the ground, blood clotting at his posh little nose. "The fuck man? What's your problem?"

"You, you little, rotten, unforgivable fucker, let _my_ Sherlock Holmes try to kill himself. You bought him to fuck him. You bought an abused, raped, vulnerable slave, to fuck him. And now you're complaining because he tried to kill himself in your posh little kitchen. " John grabbed Sebastian by the neck and shoved him against the wall. "If you want to live, Mr. Wilkes, you will surrender all ownership of Sherlock Holmes to me. If you don't want me to go to you're stupid little house with a jug of gasoline and a match, you will fucking give Sherlock back to me. You will not charge me. You will not do anything. You will simply _leave. Sherlock. Alone._" John shoved his face right up close to the sniveling little bastard. "Do. You. Under. Stand."

"Yes… yes of course." Wilkes gasped. "Please don't hurt me…"

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other. I'll leave you be to write up the forms of Sherlock's release into my care now." John let go, and turned to Greg, who was staring at him with a mixture of awe, horror, and arousal.

"That- was the single most badass thing I've ever seen. Even more so than when you nearly strangled that pound receptionist." Greg gaped.

"And I'm not even crying this time!" John grinned.

-o0o-

Sherlock lay prone in the bed, garish slutty outfit exchanged for a simple hospital gown. John didn't know if he was conscious yet or not, so he sat down and grasped Sherlock's cold and pale hand in his and prepared to wait.

His eyes trailed to the bandages covering Sherlock's skinny forearms, feeling pain roll his gut.

Stop thinking about it John, stop.

Instead, he focused on the room, admiring the white walls. White ceiling. White floor. Oh god it was so dull. At least they had a window. That was nice.

Something jolted him, _wait a second._ These were not the accommodations of an injured slave. Most would get a shitty janitors closet of a room at best, with barely a bed to rest their bodies on. This was a high-class room, one that probably had to be paid quite a bit for. Who the fuck was paying? And why?

"Greeting, Mr. Watson." A voice startled him, he spun around, ready for a fight if there need be one.

A man stood in the doorway, gazing at him with a look of cool calculation. He wore a clean, expensive looking three-piece suit, and in the crook of his arm he held an umbrella.  
'It's fucking sunny outside' a voice at the back of John's mind snorted.

"Who are you?" John asked, not ready to let his guard down yet. Mr. Wilkes had made him incredibly wary of posh men in business suits.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes." The man said simply, leaning against the doorframe. "Sherlock," he paused, "is my younger brother."

"…Brother? You- You're family?" John gaped, never expecting to encounter another Holmes for the rest of his life. And from what Sherlock had said, he didn't want to. "You… you let you're parent's _sell_ you're little brother…"

Mycroft straightened, lips thin.

"I'll have you know I've spent years searching for my brother. I got lucky, once I heard a slave by the name of Holmes had been taken to hospital. I was surprised to find, however, that my dear brother has not been alone his life?"

"He's been apart of my family since he was four." John replied, a bit coldly. He couldn't help but feel animosity, for it was that family's fault any of this pain had happened to Sherlock. If they hadn't sold him…  
"John, my parents sold my little brother when I was ten." Mycroft said as though reading his mind. "There was very little I could do about it, but I was distraught. I was ashamed to know I had let my little brother be sent to such a cruel status, and of course after I gained some power of my own I found myself searching once again." Mycroft gazed down at the young man lying injured in the bed, faint traces of lipstick still to be seen on his pale lips.

"Well you've found him. This is Sherlock Holmes, the boy you're family abandoned. I love him. And what will you do, Mr. Holmes. Take him from me?" John growled, edging towards Sherlock's bed.

"He's badly hurt Mr. Watson. He needs someone to properly take care of him." John stiffened at the words, prepared to verbally fight to the death, "and I'm not capable of that. My brother needs someone he trusts, loves, and he doesn't even know me. So, Mr. Watson, I leave it up to you. I will of course provide my own discrete aid, be it financial or housing. I do hope I will eventually be able to be properly introduced to my brothe- to Sherlock, but now he just need you."

John heaved a heavy sigh of relief, pleasantly surprised at this turn of events. He glanced up at Mycroft, and smiled. "Of course. I'll do whatever it takes to take care of him. When he's better, I'm sure he'd like to meet you."

"One can not be too sure about that, but I'll look forward to it all the same." Mycroft nodded, and turned to leave. "I'll contact you later with information on your living accommodations and finances. For now I'd _heartily_ suggest you take a break from your studies and devote your time to caring for Sherlock. Ta." The words '_heartily _suggest', were somehow made to sound like 'if you don't, I will rip of your legs and feed them to your professors whilst burning the university down'.

John didn't mind a bit.

"Mr. Holmes… would it be possible for Sherlock to be freed? From slavery?" He asked, hesitant to hear the answer.

"…I will see what I can do, Mr. Watson. Goodbye."

A few minutes after Sherlock's strange and unexpected brother left, said young man began stirring under the hospital sheets.  
"J- John… John…" Sherlock mouthed quietly, eyes still shut as he whimpered.

"Shhh, Sherlock. It's ok, I'm here, and you're safe." John brushed his thumb over Sherlock's cheek. "Shhh…"

Sherlock's eyes flickered open, deep grey, hazy and unfocused until they shifted to John.

"…am I dreaming?"

John smiled. "No, love. We're in a hospital. You're awake. You're safe."_ You're alive…_

Sherlock blinked, lips twitching. "…I… I tried to… to…"

"Yes… but they saved you. You're coming home with me now, Sherlock. You're with me. You're safe." John whispered, kissing Sherlock's brow.

"…With you…" Sherlock croaked, smiling softly.

"…Safe with me. Always." John bit his lip. "Sherlock I'm so sorry. This is all my fault… I-"

"Don't be stupid John." Sherlock murmured, letting his eyes slip shut a moment. "Nothing's your fault." The slave paused a moment. "Do you still want me, John? I'm used… I'm broken… I'm no use to you anymore."

"Sherlock, don't ever think like that. I'll always want you. But… Sherlock, I'm going to do everything in my power to have you freed from your status as slave. I've met someone… who appears to have some power. I hope I'll be able to release you from slavery." John grasped Sherlock's hand. "And we can start over. Properly. No Master, Slave, yes sir, please or thank you sir, no discipline. We'll be equals. Proper equals."

Sherlock blinked up at him, dazed. Finally he rasped out, almost inaudibly, "John… do you like me?"

John almost giggled, remembering well that moment when Sherlock first started talking when they were children. From the expression on Sherlock's face, he did too.

"Of course I do Sherlock… I love you."

**FIN**

_A/N- That's all folks! Thank you so much for reading, and hopefully reviewing! I'm planning a sequel that should eventually be up, so look forward to that! Once again, thanks! xx _


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